


Exsultet

by Kyele



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Cinq-Mars assassination conspiracy, Enemies to Lovers, First Meetings, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Pre-Canon, Priest Kink, Religion, Resurrection, Trevilieu Easter Mass, What Happened in Savoy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-03-26
Packaged: 2018-05-27 23:38:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6304690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyele/pseuds/Kyele
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of connected shorts for the Trevilieu Easter Mass.</p>
<p>Part Eight: Easter</p>
<p>
  <i>Not until they had been certain had Milady and Mazarin told Treville.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>One day Treville will forgive them for that.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Palm Sunday

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Holy Week to everyone who celebrates, and especially to our favorite Cardinal/Captain ship (good Catholics that they are, heh)! 
> 
> Thanks to [tatzelwyrm](http://tatzelwyrm.tumblr.com/) for organizing the festival!

“Good morning, your Majesty.” The Comte de Treville bows. Carefully. He’d quickly learned, upon his recent arrival in Paris, that the court manners his father had taught him so assiduously back in Gascony were a trifle out of date. He’d remedied that through a judicious consultation with a discreet tutor, but the new manners are settling oddly over the old ones, and it takes an extra effort to recall which set is which.

“Good morning, Treville!” The King actually stops to greet him in return, which surprises Treville. He’d expected the King to breeze straight by up the steps of Notre Dame. “Attending church this morning, my dear Comte?”

“Uh – yes, your Majesty,” Treville says, thankfully managing not to stammer. The cool, assessing weight of the eyes of the King’s usual courtiers threaten to make him sweat. Several of them are still descending their carriages outside the Cathedral – the King, naturally, having disembarked at the head of the line – and perhaps that’s why Louis has seen fit to stop and speak to Treville, to give the rest of his entourage time to get themselves down. But that simple explanation smacks of the country. The other lords and ladies will be thinking in much more twisty ways. The way those who _have_ debarked are eyeing Treville up says they’re trying to figure out what possible claim the newcomer could have on the King’s attention.

“You must join us for the service, then,” the King says warmly. “Yes, you must! There will be plenty of room, you know. Or if not, someone shall slide down.”

Treville very narrowly catches himself before he can boggle outright. “Your – your Majesty is most kind, but – ”

“Oh, nonsense. I do not forget the service your father did for mine, Treville. And I quite like the look of you. I think you shall be my friend.”

The group of courtiers around Louis are far too practiced at the games of power to react to this. Treville has no such protection. He stares, and it must be said that he does it frankly.

He’d presented himself to the King upon his arrival in Paris, of course. No less could possibly be proper. But for the King to take any notice of Treville beyond that, when Treville had not come with any claim to the King’s household or inner circle, is astonishing. Certainly, Treville’s birth gives him the right to attend at court. But he has no interest in such. He’s come to Paris because farming and homesteading have proven thoroughly unappealing, and he thinks soldiering might be more to his taste. He has _not_ come in order to ingratiate himself with the King.

The King appears to have different plans. Louis beckons Treville to follow and begins his journey up the steps of Notre Dame, quite unconscious of the furor Treville can see riling underneath the cool exteriors of the other lords and ladies who follow his Majesty.

“Have you been in the Cathedral before, Treville?” the King asks.

“A handful of times, your Majesty,” Treville manages. “My father brought us to Paris several times in my youth.”

“Beautiful, is it not?”

“Quite beautiful, your Majesty.”

They enter. The King pauses by one of the basins of holy water to pay his respects. Everyone else does likewise.

As they are all doing so, a small door opens in the side of the nave. A red-robed figure emerges, pausing at the sight of the King, before turning his steps and approaching.

“Your Majesty,” this figure says.

“Cardinal Richelieu,” the King says, pleased, as the Cardinal makes his bow. “You see I have come to church, like a good son of Rome.”

Treville doesn’t quite know what to make of this. Does the King not _always_ come to church? Perhaps he’s been delinquent lately… Treville has heard that the Queen has been indisposed.

The Cardinal’s answer offers no illumination. “Your presence gives glory unto God.”

“Of course it does,” the King says immodestly. Once again Treville has to prevent himself from staring.

“I see your Majesty has a new companion,” the Cardinal adds, turning his gaze to Treville.

“Yes indeed. Richelieu, this is the Comte de Treville. His father was of great service to mine, as you no doubt recall.”

“I do indeed,” Richelieu agrees. He inclines his head towards Treville, who returns a somewhat deeper obeisance.

Treville straightens, and their eyes meet.

The first impression Treville has of Richelieu, therefore, is of his eyes. Dark. Serious. Nay, more than serious – intent. _Intense._ The light of the many candles of Notre Dame is reflected in them, making them appear to be lit from within. Treville is abruptly sure that there is a fire burning within this man. He hides it behind a smooth demeanor and clerical robes, but Treville is suddenly quite certain that Richelieu is a man of passion.

Treville wants to know what kind of passion Richelieu may be capable of. Then Treville goes cold. _You are thinking of a priest,_ he thinks in horror. _You are standing in a church. Lord, forgive me –_

Richelieu smiles. It’s outwardly cordial, but there’s a hint of knowing in it. It makes Treville wonder, fearfully, what Richelieu has just seen in Treville.

The Cardinal’s next words are utterly banal, however. “Welcome to Paris, Treville. I am sure your service to his Majesty will eclipse even your father’s.”

“Well said, Richelieu,” the King says appreciatively. “There, Treville. That’s the sort of preaching we get now that Richelieu’s been elevated. Much better than the last Cardinal! Small wonder I come to church more, eh, Richelieu?”

“Indeed,” the Cardinal says, somewhat repressively. “And you, Monsieur le Comte? May I count upon your regular attendance, as well?”

_No, for I rather fear attending any church over which you preside is rather more dangerous to my immortal soul than otherwise._ Naturally Treville cannot say this aloud. But to agree to frequent attendance would be madness. Treville is hunting frantically for some remark that will offend no one when he’s rescued by the sound of the voluntary beginning to be played. “Perhaps we had better seek our seats, your Majesty,” he says in relief.

“Yes, yes,” the King says. “Well, come by the Louvre afterwards, Richelieu. I need to talk to you about that new trade treaty.”

“Of course, your Majesty.” The Cardinal bows again. “If you’ll excuse me.”

The King waves gracious permission, and the Cardinal departs, walking off to one side while Louis – and, perforce, Treville – continue down the center row of the nave.

“Your Majesty seems to be on excellent terms with his Eminence,” Treville observes carefully.

“He’s my First Minister as well,” the King says blithely. “I quite rely on Richelieu. No idea how I’d run the kingdom without him.”

“Ah,” is the only answer Treville feels himself safe to make.

“Come sit down,” the King says. “Here you are. Next to me. The Queen won’t be here today. She’s still unwell. So you may have her seat. There. Yes, yes, just slide down, Longueville. You had your chance last week, as you recall. Now another has the opportunity. A King must be fair!”

Louis chatters on in this way until the service begins. Treville pays him all the attention that is his due, nodding and smiling and offering a diplomatic comment when appropriate. The King seems to enjoy it all, subsiding only reluctantly at the opening hymn. Even thereafter it’s clear that the King’s mind is not focused on his devotions.

For his part, Treville moves through the service on autopilot. He pays little attention to the lessons and even less to reciting the prayers. His thoughts are wholly occupied with the enigmatic Cardinal.

When the time comes for the sermon, and the same Cardinal ascends to the podium, Richelieu’s gaze goes to the King. Treville tells himself that this is quite natural, and further, that since Treville is sitting at the King’s right hand, it is equally natural that Richelieu’s gaze briefly pass over Treville. Pass over, and pause, and meet it head-on.

Treville doesn’t hear a word of the sermon. Nor does he attend to any of the remainder of the service. He’s too busy trying to forget that, when Richelieu’s gaze had met his, he’d felt as if he were burning.


	2. Holy Monday

How does the old saying go? _Be careful what you wish for?_ Treville had wanted to know what kind of passion Richelieu might be capable of. Now he knows.

How he wishes he could un-know it.

“But far be it from me to sway your Majesty against the advice of his faithful servant,” the Cardinal is saying, in tones whose honey sweetness serves only to sharpen their sting. “Others may say that the straightforwardness of the military has no place in politics; others may say that a profession which delights in trickery, in gambits, in entrapment, is incompatible with honor; but what I know is that your Majesty has designated Monsieur de Treville as your friend, as your confidant, as your companion. And therefore I do not listen to others. I repose complete trust in your Majesty, which is to say, in Treville. Let us take Treville’s advice. It is certainly far superior to any other.”

Treville flushes hot at these accusations of dishonor, and then cold, as he hears Richelieu meticulously dissect Treville’s credibility without ever touching on Treville’s actual proposal.

“But Cardinal,” the King says, becoming distressed, “surely you do not believe that I do not value _your_ advice, as well.”

Treville at this time has occasion to observe how easily the attitude of a humble, ill-used martyr is assumed by his Eminence.

“Your Majesty values everyone’s advice exactly as he ought,” Richelieu says deferentially. “You are King, ordained by God: how could it be otherwise? Therefore I am taught my true importance.”

“Well, but Richelieu,” says the King, becoming more anxious by the moment, “your plan – it is really rather harsh, is it not?”

“If your Majesty says it, it must be so,” Richelieu says, majestic now. “When I think of the danger – but no. The King knows the danger better than I. If he thinks a softer course to prevail, I will bow, and trust that he is not led astray.”

“Danger?” Louis pales. “Surely – surely the danger is not that real.”

This is Treville’s opportunity to speak. The King looks at him imploringly. Treville opens his mouth, marshals once more his arguments.

Then he closes it. Shakes his head. What purpose would it serve? Treville can argue until his face is as blue as his cloak. Richelieu will wind his way through all Treville’s words, like the serpent in the garden, and what seems now to be the plain truth will become, in Richelieu’s telling, a seductive bedazzlement the King will ignore.

“Your Majesty, I have said my piece,” Treville says instead. He says it, he thinks, with some dignity. At least he will preserve _that_. “The decision is yours. If the danger is as great as the Cardinal fears, then there is nothing more to be said.”

It has the dubious distinction of being the truth. Treville is sure that the danger is _not_ as great as Richelieu makes it out to be; that the Cardinal’s preference for overwhelming force has more of politics than necessity to it. But Treville can say, truly, that if the danger _is_ great, than Richelieu’s response is appropriate.

It’s a small salve to Treville’s conscience, compared to the lives that are about to be risked and lost.

“There, your Majesty,” Richelieu says, seizing his moment. “If the Captain – whose province this is – agrees – ”

“Yes. Yes, there can be no further argument.” Louis is still pale. Afraid. Assassination has been his greatest fear, since the death of his father Henri IV. Under the threat of it, Louis will agree to whatever measures Richelieu says are necessary. Even a military strike against an underprepared target.

Richelieu had won this round before Treville had even opened his mouth.

“See to it, Treville,” Louis commands. He rises. “I must go. I need to see Anne.”

Treville bows. The King leaves. Then the Captain and the Cardinal are left to face each other across Louis’ empty throne.

“France thanks you for your service, Captain,” Richelieu says unctuously.

“One day, Cardinal, I hope to do you as great a service as you are always doing for France,” Treville says.

The corners of Richelieu’s lips tug up. Slightly. Not enough to be a smile. Too much to be accidental.

“You’re new at court,” Richelieu says. “Let me offer you some advice. Our King is still young, in many ways. Push him too far and too fast in any one direction –even if that direction is mercy – and his fear may overtake him.”

“Catering to Louis’ fear may result in a short-term peace, but the long-term consequences are less benign,” Treville says. His temerity has his heart beating in his throat, but he’s too stubborn to back down, even if it does mean forcing his clumsy tongue to join in a battle of wits against the cleverest minister in France. “I would invite you to consider, Cardinal, how much more important it is to serve a _wise_ King, rather than one who is… happy, but sheltered.”

Richelieu’s eyes narrow.

“But then, I’m just a simple soldier.” Treville sighs, insincerely. “No doubt your Eminence, whose education and profession center on morality and philosophy, has the right of it.”

“The Lord instructs us to seek the truth in all places where it may lie, and not to neglect the low for the high,” Richelieu says. “Perhaps, Monsieur le Comte, we may speak further on this topic. I am hosting a small _salon_ tomorrow evening – dare I hope for your company?”

 _What is this?_ Bribery? An offer of alliance? A true interest in Louis’ well-being? Whatever it is, Treville mislikes it. No one who had spoken as circuitously as Richelieu had to Louis moments ago would be honest and straightforward now, surely.

One thing is certain. In this Treville’s heart and mind are united. Any approach to intimacy with the Cardinal – whether it be political, fraternal, or the dangerous whisperings of mortal sin – is to be avoided. Whatever the Cardinal’s motives.

“Alas, I fear I am otherwise engaged,” Treville says, remembering at the last minute to be diplomatic. “But your Eminence honors me with the invitation.”

“Perhaps another time, then,” Richelieu suggests.

“Yes. Perhaps.”

“A good day to you, then, Captain.”

The Cardinal moves to exit. The room is large, but he cuts his path close enough to Treville that his Eminence’s robes brush against Treville’s elbow and sword-hilt. The fabric is soft, and the smell of incense is suddenly everywhere.

“Good day,” Treville murmurs to the retreating figure.

The scent lingers, even after Treville has retreated to his hotel, shed his cloak, changed his shirt. It remains in his nose as he retires, and traces of incense can yet be caught when Treville takes himself in hand for his nightly release.

This, too, is a sin. But a lesser one. Better than – alternatives. For this sin, Treville may be forgiven. For the other –

Memory murmurs quietly. _I do not listen to others; I repose complete trust in Treville. Let us take Treville’s advice. It is certainly far superior to any other._

Richelieu makes him burn. With anger, with shame, with fear. Even after today’s display, with desire.

Treville forces his mind blank when he comes, and tries his best, afterwards, not to dream.


	3. Holy Tuesday

“The King isn’t going to listen to you,” the Cardinal says quietly.

Treville swears, letting go of the sword-hilt he’d snatched for automatically when he’d realized he isn’t alone. He regards the disarray of his papers – dropped in his quest for his sword – with dismay. “Your Eminence.”

“Captain.” The Cardinal inclines his head, serene.

Treville grits his teeth, forces himself to relax. “How good of you to join me. In my humble abode. In my _private_ quarters. Without announcing yourself or bringing a guard.”

“How else to speak with you without raising attentions?”

“There I must contradict your Eminence. You may be pleased to call Musketeers blind, but even they will notice when a Cardinal passes through them.”

“That would be a concern if I’d entered through the front door, and passed through the courtyard, I quite agree. Since my route was elsewise, I am not so concerned.”

Treville blinks. Once. Then twice. There is no other way into his chamber than through his antechamber, whence one may only come through the corridor outside, which accesses the stairs, which are gained from the courtyard, which open to the main entrance. There is no other route.

Richelieu _tsks_ , an impatient sound. “The gardens, Treville. Do try to keep up.”

Does Richelieu truly mean to imply – “The fence is twice your height!”

Now the Cardinal smiles. “You could surmount it easily, could you not?”

“ _I_ am accustomed to physical exertion,” Treville says before he can think better of it.

“And so am I,” Richelieu says, “in the service of France. Treville, the King will not listen to you.”

Treville stares. Then he stands from behind his desks and stalks past the Cardinal.

“Treville – ”

Treville ignores this, pulling open the door that the Cardinal has closed behind him. From there Treville passes into his own antechamber, picks up a chair, and brings it back into his private office. He doesn’t keep chairs in his office, save his own; no one else comes here. He doesn’t wish to encourage otherwise. But Treville needs something to do that isn’t swear at a priest. So he fetches the chair and places it by his desk with a solid thud.

“That’s not necessary,” Richelieu says, bemused.

Treville returns to his own desk. From the innermost drawer he produces a decanter of brandy and two glasses. “Drink?” he asks perfunctorily, tugging the stopper free.

“I thank you, no.”

“Sit.”

“Treville – ”

“ _Sit._ ”

The Cardinal sits.

Treville nods. He pours himself three fingers and drains it in a single swallow. Then he sets the glass back down and considers the Cardinal.

Richelieu has surmounted the wall around his gardens and gained access to his private quarters via the garden door that opens from his antechamber. He is even now sitting in Treville’s bedchamber, looking about himself. Looking quite at home. Looking like something out of Treville’s darkest fantasies, on a day when Treville’s demons already whisper to him with disturbing strength.

Treville pours himself another drink.

“The King – ” Richelieu begins.

“ – isn’t going to listen to me.” Treville knocks the second drink back and laughs, mirthlessly. “Do you really think I don’t know that, Richelieu?”

“It seemed as if you intended to speak to him again anyway,” Richelieu says carefully.

Treville contemplates his empty glass. The alcohol is already starting to go to his head. He begins to wonder what he might do under its influence. What he might regret. Regretfully, he puts the bottle back in its drawer and closes it, leaving the two glasses – one clean, one dirty – to sit on his desk alone and reflect the lamplight.

“I have to try,” Treville says quietly, not lifting his gaze from the contemplation of those glasses.

There’s a flutter in the corner of his vision, as if his guest has begun to reach out and aborted the gesture just as abruptly. “I know this is important to you,” Richelieu says. “You made quite clear – ”

“Oh, didn’t I?” Treville laughs again. This time he can hear the bitterness. Yes, he’d made his position clear. He’d challenged the King in front of the entire court. Dared to think that reason, that logic, that mercy or friendship or simple God-fearing righteousness might move Louis. That the King means what he says when he pays lip service to his duty. Or calls Treville his _dear friend_ , his _trusted advisor._

Treville had found out today what that’s worth.

“There is another way,” Richelieu says softly.

Treville’s eyes suddenly feel as if they weigh a ton each. He lifts them, straining with the effort, and focuses them on the Cardinal.

“I won’t stoop to your methods,” Treville says. The words are clumsy, or perhaps it’s just his tongue. “If you mean to suggest something dishonorable – ”

“I have taken your preferences into account,” Richelieu says. “I have come here to put a proposal to you. I have taken no steps. You will hear what I envision. If it does not meet with your approval, there is nothing more to be said. This conversation never happened.”

“And if it does?”

“Then, together, we will turn the King aside from this path of dishonor. And France will be the better for it.”

The lamps are playing tricks. Richelieu’s face seems carved from shadows. Only his eyes are alive. Treville remembers seeing those eyes for the first time. Remembers thinking that they burned. They are burning again now.

_I am drunk. And maudlin. And bitter._

_And I must be out of my mind to even be considering this._

But to listen confers no obligation. And if anyone can think of a way out of this mess… if Treville’s open appeal to reason and decency has had its chance, and failed… Richelieu has been known to sway the King, when everyone else has given it up.

“Tell me your plan,” Treville says.

For the first time, Treville sees what it looks like when Richelieu means his smile.


	4. Spy Wednesday

“Ah! I see Chalus over there. Forgive me, Treville, I must just go speak with him.”

Bowing and smiling in apology, de Thou heads off. Treville lets him go with a good grace. Garden-parties have gotten easier in the years since he’d first come to Paris, as he’s gained friends and a standing in court beyond Louis’ initial fancy, but this sort of thing will never be Treville’s forte. He’s been sociable enough thus far that he feels himself entitled, three hours in, to refill his cup of iced wine and sip it in peace by the fountain for a few moments.

“Treville! My dear Treville, how have you been?”

Treville looks up at this call of his name, and in spite of his initial annoyance at having his momentary peace disturbed, his smile soon becomes genuine. “Cinq-Mars, a good day to you.”

“And to you. Lord, though, it’s hot! Shady seat there, I see. Good choice.” Cinq-Mars grins. “Always seizing the high ground; there’s the sign of a good soldier.”

Treville laughs, and moves to make space on the fountain’s lip for his friend, but the Marquis shakes his head. “No, no, don’t move for me. I mayn’t stay; promised Mme de Chevreuse I’d walk the grounds with her.” He waggles his eyebrows, and Treville laughs.

“Anyway, I’m just by to tell you that I’m afraid that I won’t be able to join your hunting-party this weekend. Terribly sorry to miss it, but there are some events going down that I simply can’t miss. I do regret it.”

“I’ll miss you,” Treville says with heartfelt regret. “But of course the service of France comes first.”

“Yes. Yes indeed.” Cinq-Mars taps his nose. “This is the service of France, and no mistake. If all goes well, we’ll have – but it’s as well to say no more.”

Treville nods, readily enough. He has no need to hear his friend’s secrets. Let him keep them and welcome.

“So I’m afraid I’ll have to bow out. Next time, eh?”

“Next time,” Treville agrees. “Plenty of game in the world. I’ll look forward to it.”

“Right. Thank you, Treville. Must go now. I see de Thou over there, don’t I? I must just have a word with him, and then on to Mme de Chevreuse.”

“All right.”

Cinq-Mars turns to go. Then he pauses and spins back around. “I say, Treville, don’t mention any of this to the Cardinal. You see it’s he we’re going to off this weekend.”

Treville freezes.

“Good man,” Cinq-Mars says, and strides off.

Something cold and wet lands on Treville’s wrist. He looks down at it blankly. There’s a droplet of wine there. His hands are shaking, and he’s spilled some of his iced wine.

He sets the cup aside.

_Surely he didn’t mean –_

_“I say, Treville, don’t mention any of this to the Cardinal. You see it’s he we’re going to off this weekend.”_

_But he wouldn’t –_

_Surely –_

_Surely –_

_Oh, God. What do I do?_

The situation is impossible. _Surely_ Cinq-Mars had been joking. What kind of conspirator – _no, don’t use the term_ – but if it applies –

_Don’t be ridiculous. What do you think Cinq-Mars meant? Assassination? If so, why would he announce it casually at a garden-party, with who knows how many spies luring behind the shrubberies?_

_But if he meant it –_

Treville shoots to his feet.

“Cinq-Mars – Cinq-Mars!” The Marquis is out of earshot – nay, out of eyeshot, too. He had been heading towards the shrubberies; Treville follows him. “Cinq-Mars! Chalus, did you see which way the Marquis went?”

“Past that shrubbery,” the Comte answers readily.

“Thank you. – Cinq-Mars! There you are.” The Marquis is alone – what had happened to de Thou? – and he looks rueful when he sees Treville is following him.

“Cinq-Mars,” Treville says, drawing close enough to drop his voice to a murmur and hopefully not be overheard. “What you said to me, just now – ”

“I know,” Cinq-Mars says, still rueful. “The moment the words were out of my mouth I regretted them.”

“You meant it?” Treville lowers his voice still further. “You meant – ”

“Don’t say the word,” Cinq-Mars says quickly. “In fact, forget I said anything.”

“I can’t,” Treville hisses.

“You can,” Cinq-Mars insists. “I shouldn’t have told you. I forgot myself. You’re a good friend, Treville. I wanted to bring you in on this, but the others overruled me. I forgot for a moment. I’m sorry for that. But it need go no further. Just forget I said anything.”

“You can’t do this,” Treville says. “It’s – Cinq-Mars, it’s – ”

“Necessary.”

“Something like this is never necessary!”

“The Cardinal is a poison on this country,” Cinq-Mars says intently. “He lies, he cheats, he blackmails and he murders.”

“So you will do the same to him?”

“Some would call that justice.”

“Others would call that madness. And damnation. Besides, the consequences for France – you know the King relies on him!”

“Yes. I know it. I know it far too well.” Cinq-Mars’ voice is cold. “We will fix that.”

“You can’t. You mustn’t. Call it off. The others will listen to you.”

“It’s gone too far for that.”

“Henri.” Treville swallows, trying to appeal to familiarity, to friendship. “It’s wrong. It’s a sin. Clean death in battle is one thing, but this – ”

“It’s necessary,” Cinq-Mars repeats. “You’re holding on to rules that don’t apply here, Treville. When a house is on fire, you can’t stand in the entryway and pretend the walls and roof are still sound. You have to leave the house.”

Treville closes his eyes briefly, a futile bid to block out the truth that is now starkly plain.

Cinq-Mars won’t change his mind. He won’t recant or call off the plan. There is something fanatical in his face, in his voice. He has dedicated himself to this. The friend Treville had made is gone. Only this martyr remains.

_And he will drag me down with it if I don’t get away –_

“Treville – I wasn’t supposed to let you in on it – but now that you know – ” Cinq-Mars begins.

 _God preserve me._ “Yes, quite a pity.” Treville lets himself fall back a step, returns his voice to its normal timbre. “I will miss you at my hunting-party, but of course the business of France compels you.”

Cinq-Mars’ gaze is fixed, unblinking, on Treville. “You’re sure?” he murmurs, still quiet.

Treville nods jerkily.

“Perhaps next time,” Cinq-Mars says, more loudly.

“Yes. I – I – excuse me.”

“Treville.” Cinq-Mars forestalls him momentarily. “My life is in your hands.”

“I know,” Treville whispers.

He walks away.

They’re in the King’s gardens. The Louvre is only a few minutes’ walk distant.

The Cardinal keeps offices here. He’ll be around, or else across the street, at the Palais-Cardinal.

Cinq-Mars is planning to kill Richelieu. This weekend. He will not recant.

And by opening his mouth, he’s made Treville an accomplice.

The horror of it chokes Treville. He doesn’t like the Cardinal’s methods any more than Cinq-Mars does. But Treville has always believed that that’s because he knows right from wrong. He’s believed the Cardinal, whatever his political acumen and his rank in the Church, forgets that critical distinction. That the Cardinal’s willingness to stoop to crime tarnishes his soul.

Treville has fought his whole life to be a good man. Maybe that makes him a fool. Certainly it makes him a rarity, in Louis’ court. But he doesn’t believe that two wrongs makes a right. He doesn’t believe in morality by the numbers. The shadowy world of back-alley stabbings and murder disgusts him. To find that one of his closest friends is a part of it – has dragged him _into_ it –

_Lord give me strength._

Someone is going to die. Richelieu, if the plot succeeds; Cinq-Mars, and whomever else has joined the conspiracy, if it fails. Or if it is betrayed.

Someone is going to die. Cinq-Mars has put the choice of whom into Treville’s hands.

_If only he’d never told me._

But that’s a coward’s thought. The fact that Cinq-Mars is Treville’s friend shouldn’t make a difference. Nor is the fact that Richelieu is – whatever he is, to Treville. Sometime political ally. More frequent enemy. Compelling, hypnotic, tantalizing mainstay of Treville’s most ruthlessly suppressed fantasies. Demon. Tempter.

 _I don’t want to go to Hell,_ part of Treville wails. And yet he’s known, since the first time the sight of a naked boy had stirred lust in his belly, that one day he would find himself there.

Treville had always thought that it would be Richelieu who drags him down at last. He’d never thought it would be like this.

“Is his Eminence in his office?” Treville asks the first Red Guard he sees, when he reaches the cool shadows of the Louvre.

“Yes,” the Guard says in some astonishment, seeing that it is the Captain of the Musketeers who asks.

“If anyone comes after me, and asks where I’ve gone, tell them I’ve gone back to the garrison.” When the Guard looks as if he’ll argue, Treville snaps, “Do it, if you love your master.”

Something in Treville’s face or voice must convince him. The Guard nods slowly.

Treville turns down the corridor. Towards the Cardinal’s office. Towards the betrayal of his friends, the salvation of France, and his own damnation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know that the Cinq-Mars assassination plot was actually much later in Richelieu's life than this is set. Shhh. Let's pretend that in BBC-canon it happens fairly early on, okay? ;)


	5. Maundy Thursday

The sudden dimness of the Cathedral makes Treville stumble. At least, that’s his excuse. It could happen to anyone, a change of light causing disorientation. Nothing to remark upon.

A soldier doesn’t become faint at the sight of blood and death. Even when the blood had belonged to men he’d called friend. Even when the death is met on a scaffold, by order of the King. Even when the executioner had mucked it up, hacked away at de Thou’s neck like a butcher going at a leg of lamb.

Even when Cinq-Mars had looked straight at Treville, as he’d walked up the scaffold, and then looked away and spat.

So it’s the dimness of the Cathedral making Treville stumble. It’s the heat of the day that’s made him dizzy. It’s the lack of breakfast that makes him faintly nauseated.

He makes his weaving way down the nave, passing the basin of holy water without even a glance. He doesn’t dare touch it. He’d been so sure, beforehand, that he’d been doing the right thing, but now – now –

None of the candles are lit outside the confessionals. Treville comes to a dumb halt outside them. He’d formed this plan, this hope, more out of instinct than rationality. Now that it’s failed him, he has no idea what to do.

“Treville?”

Treville starts, nearly falling over entirely as he spins too quickly and loses what little remains of his balance. Only the pair of hands grasping his upper arms keeps him aloft.

“Richelieu,” he gasps. “What are you – ” _doing here,_ he can’t quite say. Hadn’t Richelieu been – been at –

“The King is angry at me,” Richelieu says. “I thought it best to stay away from the Louvre.”

Treville pulls himself together. “I did not mean to ask why you were not at the Louvre,” he says coldly, brushing Richelieu’s hands away and standing under his own power. “I meant to ask, why are you not at the execution.”

“I protest it.”

“You – _what_?”

Richelieu is looking at Treville strangely. “You didn’t know? That’s why the King is so displeased with me. I told him I didn’t want those men executed. He insisted. I have stayed away in protest.”

“Why?” Treville whispers.

“Why what?”

“Why did you not – they tried to kill you.”

“They are not the first. And by martyring them, the King has all but ensured they will not be the last.”

This is said with cool consideration. If it had been said slyly, or with obvious intent to ingratiate, Treville would have called it a lie. But said like this – Treville recognizes it, albiet unwillingly, for the truth.

When Treville doesn’t speak again immediately, Richelieu asks, “Why have you come?”

Treville doesn’t intend to answer, but his eyes betray him, and flicker to the wall of confessionals.

“Ah. I had suspected.” Richelieu sighs. “Treville, it’s not – ”

“Do not say that I bear no guilt in this,” Treville hisses. “You have not lied to me yet over this affair. I beg you, don’t start.”

No, Richelieu hadn’t lied. Nor had he attempted to conceal from Treville the inevitable consequences of his betrayal. Not when Treville, angry but determined, had first found him in his office at the Louvre and told him what little he’d known of the plot against Richelieu. Nor later, when Treville had begun to doubt, to wonder, to question whether he’d made the right choice. Richelieu had been blunt, but he’d been honest. _I will do what I must. Some crimes call for blood. There is nothing you can do for your friends – they have damned themselves._

“If you feel you need it,” Richelieu says after a moment, “I will listen to your confession.”

“You?” Treville is startled into a laugh; it holds more than an edge of hysteria.

“I,” Richelieu agrees, without the slightest intimation that he’s taken Treville’s exclamation amiss.

Treville stares at him doubtfully. “Why would you?”

“Because you are in need,” Richelieu says softly. “And I wish to ease you.”

“Because you are a priest,” Treville concludes.

“I am that as well.”

“As well?”

“What is said in the confessional is private. Come.”

Treville, perhaps still dazed, permits himself to be led. Richelieu settles him on the penitent’s bench, nudging the kneeler aside, and then takes down the screen and the veil after he’s moved to the other side. There is no pretense of anonymity here. The space left by the screen is not large, but it’s enough to see.

“Bless me father, for I have sinned,” Treville begins, reaching for comfort by rote.

“Treville,” Richelieu interrupts.

Treville falters. “What?”

“Why did you tell me?”

“I – I beg your pardon?”

“Why did you tell me of your friends’ plot? I was unaware of it, until you spoke to me, and like to remain so. They may have succeeded. They would probably have kept their secrecy, and so their lives, even if I had likewise survived. By speaking you condemned them. Why?”

“It was the right thing to do.”

“Is that the only reason?”

Treville’s gaze, fixed on the floor, flies up. “What other reason could there be?”

Richelieu is watching him. There’s no flame in his face or eyes now; he looks, for the first time since Treville has known him, exhausted. “There needn’t be one,” he says quietly. “To wish to do good is an exemplary motive. Many men would need another, more sordid one. Not you. I do not pretend I know you well, yet I know this about you. To do the right thing is enough for you. And yet – ”

“And yet?”

“And yet something whispers to me that you may have had another reason to preserve my life.”

Their gazes catch. Lock. The fire missing from Richelieu has found a home in Treville, it seems. It burns within him, too much for mortal man to hold, consuming him from within.

“If I did have another reason – if I did – ”

Richelieu extends his hand, silently, through the cutout where the screen had been. Not in benediction. In offertory. In mute appeal.

“I fear for my soul,” Treville whispers.

“I absolve you,” Richelieu says.

Treville reaches back.

It’s awkward. The cutout between them is placed at head-height, not hand-height. But the soft clasp of Richelieu’s hand against his makes up for it, at least for the few moments it lasts.

Treville says, barely audible even in the silent stillness: “There are some sins that not even you can absolve, Cardinal.”

“There are some sins that are worth damnation,” the Cardinal answers, voice likewise low, yet intense.

The cutout is at head-height. Treville doesn’t hesitate, this time, to lean forward. To press their lips together and taste of the forbidden fruit.

“Is that one of them?” Treville asks, when they pull apart again.

“I cannot say,” Richelieu admits. “Find out with me.” It’s said as a statement – Richelieu is proud, too proud, perhaps – but Treville knows it for a question. An entreaty.

Treville hesitates once more. One final time. It’s not too late. He can still turn aside.

Two of his closest friends are dead of Treville’s betrayal. He’d done it for France; he’d done it for honor; he’d done it for God. All of those things are true. And yet – yes – he’d done it for Richelieu, too.

He is so tired of lying to himself.

“I will,” Treville says, accepting his fate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do know that the real-life Richelieu was quite eager to have Cinq-Mars and de Thou executed, but as this is fanfiction, I've taken plot-appropriate liberties. Apologies to anyone hoping for a more in-depth and historically accurate treatment of the material. For that you have to talk to [tatzelwyrm](http://tatzelwyrm.tumblr.com/) or [becumsh](http://becumsh.tumblr.com/). They're the historians for team trevilieu :)


	6. Good Friday

“De Guignes, now. He was a character. A dandy. No, don’t laugh,” Treville says. “Even the Musketeers have a few of them. But a good soldier. Sword, musket, didn’t matter. And with the novices, too. He was kind to them. Didn’t give himself airs. Well, no more than he did with the rest of the garrison.” Treville falls silent, contemplating the glass in his hand, half-full of amber liquid. Deliberately he takes another gulp. At his elbow, the bottle sits, more empty than full. It had been full, when he’d started. But that had been eighteen names ago.

Nineteen, now.

“Then there’s Marsac.” Treville reaches for the bottle, pours the dregs over the two fingers of brandy still in his glass. He loses himself for a few moments, staring at it.

“Marsac,” his listener prompts. Richelieu sits across from Treville, in the second comfortable chair that now resides in Treville’s private chambers.

Their relationship is not a public one. It can never be. There can be no robes in Treville’s small wardrobe, no theological books gracing his bookshelves. But there can be this chair, innocuous. There can be a visit from the Cardinal, late at night, to discuss business of state. To discuss the military disaster lately enacted across the border with their eastern neighbor Savoy. And if that discussion happens to be conducted over brandy – if Treville’s sword-belt is set aside and his shirt unlaced – if Treville’s conversation focuses more on the names and personalities of the dead men, instead of the broader military conversation –

– if, in short, this has more the reality of a wake, and an anguished man spilling his soul to his lover and receiving comfort in return –

– there is no one to know. A chair tells no tales.

“Marsac was a troubled man,” Treville tells his brandy. “But he had the seeds of something good in him. They were just starting to flower.” Now they will rot in the ground, along with twenty other corpses.

Richelieu stands. He sets his prayer-book aside. He’d read from it earlier, to comfort Treville. Now he takes the glass from Treville’s slack hand and sets it aside, evidently deciding that Treville’s had enough of that particular kind of comfort, too.

“Aramis will recover, though,” Treville says as Richelieu pulls him, stumbling, to his feet. “The physicians say so. At least in body. Lord send that he recovers in his soul, too…”

Treville trails off, muttering. He’s drunk. He’s exhausted, body and spirit. He’s grateful when Richelieu tips him into bed. The Cardinal kneels, untying Treville’s boots.

“You’re a day late,” Treville slurs down to him. “Foot-washing was yesterday.”

“I was busy, as were you, organizing this disaster.” Richelieu tosses the discarded boots aside and helps Treville swing his feet up on the bed. “This will have to serve in its place.”

“Maybe my men will come back,” Treville says seriously. “On Easter. Come again in glory to judge the living and the dead…”

Richelieu sits on the edge of the bed next to Treville. He passes a hand over Treville’s flushed face, worriedly. “You know they will not.”

“Of course I know it.” Treville’s head lolls back. He stares at the ceiling, unseeing. “But it would be nice – to – to pretend.”

“Will it not make it twice as hard, when the pretending must end?”

“Oh, Armand.” Treville’s startled into a laugh. Watery and creaking, it feels as if it’s being torn from his ribs. “It will be misery either way.”

“Yes. Yes, I suppose you’re right.” Richelieu rises and goes to blow out the candle. He’s forestalled by Treville’s hand on his arm.

“What is it? Richelieu asks.

“Can you stay?”

Richelieu frowns, visibly torn. He glances to the clock in the corner, then to the door. “Perhaps for another hour. We have much to discuss.”

“The house is nearly empty,” Treville tells him tiredly. The alcohol ties his wits, but his tongue moves independently of them, as always. “The Musketeers are all off honoring their fallen, or else tending Aramis. They won’t be back till well after dawn.”

“Drunker than you, most likely.” The taunt is likely reflexive, and not at all biting. Treville merely nods.

Richelieu considers a moment longer. “Yes. All right.” He sheds his heavy outer robe, though not his inner ones; if anyone does walk in on them, it will merely seem as if the Cardinal has lightened his burden some, at the end of a long day. Prudence, even now. Treville feels his heart lurch in his chest. Protecting them both, as he always does, even when Treville is unable to protect himself.

Richelieu draws his chair up next to Treville’s bed, where he can sit close by. Then he blows out the candle. Treville fumbles in the dark until he can feel Richelieu’s hand sliding into his.

“Love you,” he says, because he’s too drunk, too weary, and too heart-sore to think better of it.

“And I you, my Jean.”

Richelieu’s lips brush his forehead. Treville closes his eyes, the better to know the touch.


	7. Holy Saturday

“I am the resurrection and the life, says the LORD,” Father Joseph says. “Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live; and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die. Amen.”

“Amen,” the congregation choruses, and disposes themselves to sit.

Treville sits. At least, he thinks he sits. He _must_ sit, because otherwise the coffin would be beneath his line of sight, and it is not. He may see the coffin easily, without bending his neck.

Armand’s coffin.

The King, at Treville’s side, is weeping. The Queen sits dry-eyed, and Treville would think that she does not regret her enemy’s death, except that she is pale and drawn. She and Richelieu had never agreed. But she had respected Richelieu, at least. Respected his intellect. Respected his integrity, if such a word might be used of a man who had thought nothing of murder and blackmail and betrayal as means to an end. Whoever will replace Richelieu – and the courtiers are already swirling around the empty post, as carrion circle a corpse, though more swiftly and less honestly – they will almost certainly lack that fierce integrity.

These considerations pass through Treville’s mind out of reflex, a muscle clenching and unclenching by rote. Treville does not mind them. He does not care. All of his care is fixed on the ornately decorated coffin before his eyes, which conceals the body of the man he loves from the world.

The congregation rises again. A hymn is sung. Treville stands with the rest of them, but does not sing.

_You would have liked me to sing, wouldn’t you? You always said you liked my voice. It’s nothing special. Except maybe to you._

More verses are spoken. A psalm is recited. Treville holds his prayer-book in nerveless hands. He must turn the pages, because whenever he looks down – whenever he can’t bear the sight of the coffin for a moment longer, and turns his eyes away to seek refuge – the page is always correct. He wonders if the pages may be turning themselves.

Father Joseph begins to preach. He speaks of righteousness. He speaks of judgment. He speaks of forgiveness.

_Are you forgiven, Armand? Do you sit even now at the right hand of the Father? Or have you gone elsewhere?_

_Wherever you have gone, at least I know I will one day follow you._ Forgiven or otherwise, Heaven or Hell, Treville may be sure that his soul’s destination is the same.

The congregation kneels in prayer. Anne has to be helped onto her knees, heavy as she is with child. She could have elected to remain seated; in her condition, it is permitted. That she does not makes Treville blink, several times, lest he betray himself.

_You are more missed than you knew to expect._

Though not by all. There are other Musketeers near Treville. Near the King. None of them appear to be carved from stone, nor do their limbs seem as unresponsive as blocks of wood. None of them have trouble breathing. None of them seem to grieve. Out of the corner of Treville’s eye, he sees Aramis murmur something to Porthos, and Porthos’ smile, hastily covered. Athos turns his own head to give them both a look in reprimand. It saves Treville the trouble of doing so himself, though he does not fool himself into thinking Athos censures his subordinates for any reason beyond a sense of duty and protocol.

Across the aisle, halfway back in the church, are three pews filled with officers of Richelieu’s Red Guards. Treville has grown to know many of them in the years he’s loved Richelieu. To know their names and faces, yes, but also their personalities, their likes, their hopes and dreams. They are soldiers like Treville. They wear red cloaks, but otherwise there is little to distinguish them from the Musketeers, though Treville would not say so aloud for the world. They will be grieving now, too. It seems unfair that the Musketeers, by virtue of their duty to protect the King, may command such good seats, while the Red Guards, who with Richelieu’s death are bereft, are relegated to the general gallery.

_Lord watch over them too, for they no more know what to do with themselves now than I do, and they have not even their duty to comfort them in their grief._

The service winds to its interminable close. The congregation rises again. Father Joseph tucks his own book into his sleeves and waits for the pallbearers to come forward.

There’s a momentary pause. No one has organized pallbearers. Consternation appears briefly on several faces. Then a few men step forward. Allies of Richelieu’s, or at least men who had not hated him.

The King takes a half-step forward, as well, as if he would join the crowd. Anne’s hand tightens on his arm. She needs his support, else she’ll fall, gravid as she is. And then there is the majesty of the throne to consider. Even for Richelieu, even for the Cardinal and Duc and First Minister, the step may be too great for Louis to take.

Treville does not intend to act, but he does. He lays his own hand on the King’s arm, an act of great daring, but one he is numb to. Louis turns his head to see Treville shake his; Anne, looking up, smiles relief and nods approval and command in the same motion.

“Yes, go,” she says. “Act on my husband’s behalf, with our blessing.”

Thus sanctioned, Treville joins the other men at Richelieu’s coffin. The remaining open handles are at the back. Treville takes one of them without a murmur. He does not do this to be seen; he does not do this for glory or standing. He does this because the King may not. And because there is no one more fitting to bear Richelieu to his final rest.

With six men lifting it the coffin seems light. It is only wood in the end, after all, no matter how beautifully lacquered or inlaid. The corpse within it is only flesh. And Richelieu had not been a large man. Not in body. In spirit, in mind – even, sometimes, in heart, though usually when only Treville could see it – in those ways, Richelieu had been large.

The horse-drawn hearse is waiting outside. The coffin is placed upon it. Anne beckons Treville into the royal carriage, after. Treville obeys, unthinking. D’Artagnan, holding Treville’s horse as well as those of his own squad, turns his head in a surprise that Treville only barely registers.

The ride to the cemetery is not long. Louis retreats behind his handkerchief and does not speak at all. Treville stares straight ahead, unseeing.

Anne says, “There are some items that belonged to the Cardinal that were bequeathed to France, but are unsuitable for any of his endowments, owing to their personal nature. They should be placed in someone’s charge, until his Majesty decides what is to be done with them. I had thought you might undertake the task, Captain.”

Treville feels his gaze come back into focus, taking in the Queen’s face. Pale. Proud. Betraying nothing, except – is that a hint, in the corner of her tight-pressed lips, of sympathy?

“I am at your Majesties’ command,” he says, toneless.

“The charge may be of long standing,” Anne says. “I do not expect my husband or I will have leisure to attend to the items for some time. The caretaker would be quite free to treat them as his own possessions.”

“I…” Treville has to pause, to lick his lips and try to will some moisture back into his throat. “I understand, your Majesty.” After a moment, he manages to add, “Thank you.” The words nearly choke him, both with the fear of uttering them out loud and the grief that Treville cannot speak. Anne’s lips tilt down, in understanding response.

They arrive shortly after that. Treville finds himself standing at the side of a gravesite as Richelieu’s mortal remains are lowered. A young priest hands flowers around to all assembled, to be thrown on Richelieu’s grave. Treville wonders if there might be a moment when no eyes are on him, where he might kiss the flower or whisper a true farewell. No. There will be no such opportunity. And when the moment comes, Treville tosses his flower into the ground with the rest, anonymous and undistinguished.

He wants to weep. To wail. To beg Armand to return. To wish Armand good luck and Godspeed on this final journey. He cannot. It is not only the crowd that stops him. He has been alone many times, since Richelieu’s death. Even alone the tears do not come.

Now Treville can only watch as the last drops of holy water are shaken over the ground, and then turn to follow the King and Queen back to their carriage. Back to the palace. Back to work. Back to a life he must go on living.

But Treville can think. And in his thoughts he can pray. _Be well, Armand. Be at peace. And if you can, if it is permitted… wait for me._

_I love you._


	8. Easter Sunday

“Here is the map,” Mazarin says. “As accurate as my spies can make it, which is to say, probably not very. But better than nothing. Or so I pray.”

Treville nods. He does not look up. The map has all his attention.

Milady points. “The forecourt and servant’s quarters are accurate, for I penetrated as far myself. Sally made it all the way to the scullery. I trust her eyes as well as my own.”

“And the rest?” Treville says. His voice would shock him, if he had any shock left to spare: harsh and grating.

“Guesswork, but educated guesswork. Based on eavesdropping and comparison with similar fortifications. There are only so many good ways to build a castle. I do the Spanish the credit of assuming this one is well-built. Considering the prize it holds.”

The prize. The treasure Spain had stolen from France, while France had been all unknowing.

 _Richelieu_.

Months gone by, _months_ , while Treville had mourned and France had reeled and the carrion had picked over Richelieu’s leavings. Months had turned to years as Rochefort had gained the title of First Minister, then through bribery, blackmail and murder consolidated his power. As another First Minister had done, once – but there the comparison ended. Rochefort had been no Richelieu. Rochefort could never have competed with Richeleu.

As it turns out, Rochefort’s Spanish masters had made sure that he had never had to.

 _Poison_ , Milady had said, grimly, when she and Mazarin had sat Treville down and told him the blunt truth. _One kind to counterfeit weakness of the heart; another kind to counterfeit death. A third to weaken Richelieu’s physician so that another had to be found. And then they spirited him away under cover of death._

It had been the assassin, the false Louise, who had first given Milady the hintings of this fell plot. Milady had visited Louise in custody to learn what Louise might know. She had intended to cut Louise’s throat at the end of it. But what Louise had known had been enough, more than enough, to buy her life.

It had taken months more after that first slender clue to track down the rest. To identify the poisons and confirm that they perform as advertised. To find the cutouts who had exchanged bodies, the ghoul who had sold the Spanish the corpse who now lies buried with all the pomp due a Cardinal and statesman, the torturer who had first broken Rochefort and then remade him into Spain’s tool. Rochefort’s final downfall and death had given them the rest of the keys to the plot. At last they had been certain.

Not until they had been certain had Milady and Mazarin told Treville.

One day Treville will forgive them for that. One day he will thank them for not raising hopes they had believed to be a fool’s. One day he will have Richelieu in his arms again, and his broken heart will be capable of many things.

Today he is capable of one thing only, and that is attending to the map of Richelieu’s prison.

“The plan for extraction, I leave in your hands,” Mazarin says now. “I caution only that the circle of secrecy must remain small. A plot on this scale would tempt many men who would otherwise be loyal.”

Treville nods. “No Musketeers,” he says. “Red Guards only.”

Milady frowns. “I do not think the Cardinal means to impugn your trusted officers,” she says carefully.

“They would do it if I asked it of them, and willingly enough. But they have no love for the Cardinal. The Guards do. It is love, not duty and honor, that is called for here. This is a fortress, and our company will necessarily be small. Only love may be counted upon to do what must be done.”

“Then we are in the right hands,” Mazarin says devoutly, and makes over Treville the sign of the cross.

* * *

The extraction is something Treville refuses to remember, except in his darkest nightmares when reason and logic have no sway. Their entrance is risky in the extreme. Their progress is bloody. Their retreat barely deserves the name.

Twenty men go in. Six come out, and one of them is Richelieu.

Two years ago, on Holy Saturday, the last day of mourning, they’d buried him. When they cross the border into France, Richelieu an unconscious, twisted, barely breathing weight on Treville’s horse, the sun is setting. Theologically, it is Easter. The day of resurrection.

They ride through the night. A waystation in Gascony that doesn’t exist gives them fresh horses, water, food that can be eaten while riding. They don’t dare to stop. They aren’t safe here. There will be no safety for them until Richelieu’s resurrection, and Spain’s perfidy, are widely known.

Treville’s no statesman. He’s only an old battered soldier. But Mazarin had learned his craft from the master himself. They will ride in through the gates of Paris at dawn. Up to the Cathedral de Notre Dame at first light. There the King and his household will be holding the Easter Vigil. Treville and four strong Guards will appear, formally dressed and mounted on noble horses. And with them, like a miracle sent from Heaven, like the resurrected Christ himself – Richelieu.

With such a legend as that, Richelieu will never face difficulty or opposition at court again, though as Treville holds tightly to the frail and wizened body before him he knows in his bones that Richelieu will never be able to resume all the offices he had held before. Still, Richelieu’s holy aura will spill over onto his chosen delegates, onto Mazarin and Father Joseph and all the others who had been touched by the great man. Louis will embrace him; the young Dauphin will study statecraft at Richelieu’s knee. France will enter a golden period, and Spain will be cast down when the blasphemy of what they’ve done becomes known.

These visions would be enough to turn anyone’s head. And yet it is not they which occupy Treville on the long night ride back to Paris. Nor, yet, is he haunted by the nightmares of what he’s left behind. His mind is full of simpler things. Richelieu, looking up as the door of his prison had opened. Burning eyes spitting defiance from within a sunken face and a broken body. The shock that had come over him when he’d first seen who stands in the door of his prison. The parted lips. The croak from his throat, unable to form words but trying, trying –

There had been no time for tears. No time for soft words or gentle reunion. Treville had pulled the bonds from Richelieu as quickly as he could, while the surviving Guards had fought their desperate rear action, and carried the Cardinal bodily out of the castle.

The soft exhale of Richelieu’s breath on Treville’s throat had been all the words Treville had needed.

Richelieu had fallen into sleep, or perhaps unconsciousness, soon after being loaded onto Treville’s horse. Treville has supported him all the long ride since then, shaking his head at the other Guards, who have all taken it in turn to offer their assistance. Truly, Treville is in the best shape of any of them. They are all wounded to a greater or lesser degree. But even as they’d fought their way out, Treville unable to wield sword or musket due to the precious burden in his arms, no harm had come to him. Perhaps it had been luck. Perhaps Richelieu’s aura had spilled over even then. Perhaps the Lord himself had stretched out his hand over them and protected them, though poor comfort that would be for the fifteen men they had left behind for dead.

Every one of those men had been volunteers, with a fierce love for their master underscoring their oaths. They will be mourned honestly. Laid to rest peacefully. Honored sincerely in Heaven. None of them, Treville thinks, regret their choice, despite their fate.

Nor would Treville regret his, should he lie there mouldering, so long as Richelieu were still on the way to safety. But he is gladder still to be alive, with his heart’s desire returned to him, riding through the night to home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for coming along on this journey with me :) And thank you for all the lovely comments. This has been a fun challenge. Happy Easter to those who celebrate!


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